


They Come Crashing Down

by stardropdream



Series: Can Nothing Change [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Character Study, Episode Related, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's how it is with change: It isn’t a matter of revelation.  It is a matter of acceptance - of knowing when it can no longer be ignored.  This is what Porthos tells himself when they go to get Aramis. (Coda fic for 2x10)</p><p>(While part of a series, this fic can stand alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Come Crashing Down

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously takes place after 2x10 with allusions to 2x06 and 2x08 - and... not really sure entirely what I meant with this. It was more of a "I have to write something cause this fic I'm working on has hit a bit of a roadbump" and this was a means to take my mind off it. And then it slowly morphed into a "here are a lot of things I like about Porthos, also portamis enjoy." So yes.

It takes a couple days to get to Douai. Much as they’d have loved to gallop the entire way there, d’Artagnan was keen as ever to point out that the horses wouldn’t actually make it that far at a full gallop. Once they’re beyond the shadows of Paris, they even their horses out into a canter and go from there. There is some well-meaning teasing to Athos about abandoning his new post as Captain, but there is a sullen kind of determination to Athos, as usual for him but compounded – his thoughts elsewhere. Meanwhile, d’Artagnan is nearly giddy with the thought of retrieving Aramis, still giddy with the thought of being married. Porthos feels something between expectation and dread – not letting himself truly need it or want it, still remembering Aramis walking away alone – that single image haunting. Still, the thought of getting him back, of fighting alongside his brothers on a battlefield, is more than enough to fuel him on without complaint. 

They arrive in Douai a few days later, several days after Aramis has already arrived and settled enough to get the sense of his new life. They’re not at war, not yet, but they’re far from done with everything. Aramis is surprised at first, then his expression closes off into something more withdrawn, uncertain. Protecting himself from hoping. 

(He can remember the morning after Aramis leaves – the day warm but dulled, early autumn, the leaves turning and the cracks in the walls around his window letting in cooler morning air before the sun warms it; he remembers dressing for the day and realizing just how much of Aramis’ things had managed to migrate into his room without him fully realizing it, over the years. He touches at the blue sash he’ll wear to d’Artagnan’s wedding and he clamps down on the urge to long for something – for some _one._ ) 

Aramis goes with them, of course, once they tell him why they’ve come – once he is granted his leave from the older monk who lingers in the archway. He promises him to return as soon as he’s able, to continue his work for God. That, more than anything, feels like a stab with a knife, although Porthos says nothing, his own smile dimmed since the moment Aramis looked at them like seeing a ghost rather than deliverance. Porthos isn’t sure if he expected differently. Perhaps he’d hoped. 

Life goes on. They ride back towards Paris. 

 

-

 

Memories tend to come as a surprise for him. He lives so much in the moment, tries so hard not to be dragged down by his past. And yet.

They’re camped out, a day’s ride from Paris and the fire is flickering and d’Artagnan passes around the food he’s charred upon the fire. The air smells like moments away from rain, and the wisp of wood and smoke. It’s dark and Porthos looks at the fire and then looks up, ignoring the sun-spots blooming over his vision, and feels the sense-memory of Aramis beneath him, the arch of his back as they press chest to chest, the way Aramis tipped his head back and gasped out with helpless pleasure when Porthos stroked his hands down over his flanks. That was weeks ago, before Aramis left for the monastery, before Constance came rushing to them to save the queen, before Porthos even knew his father’s name – but the memory still catches him at unexpected moments, unpredictable. 

(He remembers the reason for their desperation – remembers the clash of their mouths pressed together, Porthos pressing Aramis up to a wall, a sort of stilted, desperate _need_ born from watching him fall backwards out a window, not letting himself think for a moment he’d lost him. He remembers fumbling against him as they both tried to grasp at each other as tightly as possible, despite their injuries, despite the throb of Aramis’ headache, the pulse of Porthos’ dislocated shoulder; they’d been happy, though, laughing into their kiss, unable to do much more than rock against each other and whisper out frantic pleas between helpless laughter.) 

Aramis is speaking with d’Artagnan, who’s scolding him for missing his wedding as if it is an old joke and Aramis laughs and whines at the appropriate points, good-naturedly – and then his expression sobers as he apologizes for missing it, and congratulates him and Constance. And d’Artagnan looks so damn _pleased_ and then suddenly the sense-memory is there for Porthos, sharp and feeling it with his whole body. It stabs like an old wound – he almost visibly jerks away at the mere thought of it, a reminder that it is a knife that cuts, that it is dangerous, that it is terrifying. 

(Porthos has never been one for fear. Certainly not being scared of pleasure, of all things. He is not ashamed of what he feels. He remembers Aramis, always wanting, a little defiant and a little hesitant to reach out. Married women were one thing: that he would flaunt, that he would scoff and laugh about – but it took years for Aramis to admit to Porthos that he once loved Marsac. 

Porthos never much cared for that fear of pleasure, although he understood it – but he likes sex, and he likes the thrill of dangerous sex, chaotic at times but always worth it. He remembers plenty of days in the Court, some days he might wish to forget but doesn’t simply because it’s his job to _remember_ – remembers the first time he ever felt himself pressed up to a wall, stripped down, fucked into because he was there and it was convenient. He also remembers the first time he ever actually enjoyed it, years after that first memory: learned to enjoy it, learned what to feel for and taste for, learned. He was always a fast learner. 

Porthos’ careful, of course – and then, it wasn’t just about sex with Aramis. Not the way Aramis had looked at him, not the way he’d clung to him, his hand gentle over his shoulder as if afraid to break it all over again – Porthos’ own hand cupping the back of Aramis’ neck like it was precious and he is precious. 

That wasn’t about just sex, was it?) 

Firelight flickers over Aramis’ face as he tilts his head closer to d’Artagnan, softens for a moment, makes him look younger – he almost looks sweet, his eyes gentled. He laughs at something d’Artagnan says. It’s nice to see Aramis in that moment, looking vulnerable, looking like he belongs again. 

But it’s also too much, because he can remember standing behind d’Artagnan at his wedding, seeing the way he and Constance smiled at each other, felt the cinch of the blue sash around his waist and knowing that it was incomplete. 

Porthos stands too quickly, too fast, and he ignores the weight of Aramis’ gaze on his back as he retreats. This isn’t as easy as it should be. 

 

-

 

They get back to Paris just in time for them to ride out towards the southern border. Strange, to cover the expanse of the entire country, from north to south, in the course of one week. They ride south and when they pass too close to Savoy, despite the fumbling of his own unspoken words to Aramis, he rides near enough to him to keep an eye on him. If Aramis notices, he says nothing. He’s discussing with Athos what the monks do in Douai, how he’ll be eager to join them again once all is well and he is no longer needed. 

Porthos bites his tongue. 

(He remembers Aramis standing naked by Porthos’ bed for the first time, smiling as he lifts his chin – awaiting praise, his eyes light with his own surety. There’s a nervousness there, too, though – Porthos can see it in the flush of his cheeks. Somehow, that’s all the more endearing. Porthos is pretty sure he’s forgotten how to breathe in that moment, and his shoulder aches even as he reaches out and curls his hand around Aramis’ hip. He doesn’t grasp, just lets his palm rest there over the jut of his hip, thumb pressing into the hollow from hip to groin. His skin is soft but scarred – it’s beautiful. And Aramis – 

Aramis trembles. It doesn’t show on his face, but Porthos can feel it. He looks untouchable, despite the hand on his hip. He’s smiling at him like Porthos is the only one in all the world, that he is the only one he can think of in that moment. 

“Don’t be gentle,” Aramis tells him and Porthos curls his hand harder against his hip, breathes in a steady breath.

Aramis kisses him.) 

Setting up camp along the borderline between countries is an interesting practice, musketeers joined amongst the infantry and other soldiers, gathered for the express purpose of attacking the queen’s home country. There’s the din of soldiery, weapons clanging, horses nickering, the steady beat of hammers as makeshift structures are built for housing and eating. 

Aramis touches his elbow, and it is the first time he’s touched him since they found him in scratchy old linen at the monastery. 

Porthos turns to look at him. “Your sword,” Aramis says and it isn’t what Porthos would think he’d say. “It isn’t the same as before.” 

He looks down at the sword strapped to his side, wonders at Aramis noticing that change, remarking on that change. He unsheathes it to show it to Aramis, because that at least will distract him, give him an instance to focus on something other than Aramis standing close enough to be his shadow and yet untouchable. 

“The capt – the Minister gave it to me,” Porthos says. “… It was his.” 

There is a flicker of an old smile on Aramis’ face, and it at once fits there and seems incongruous. Aramis has been withdrawn since leaving the monastery, reserved and quieter than he once was even weeks ago. Porthos wonders if it’s so easy to disconnect from the world, that only a few days might do that. 

Things change. Of course they do. But then there are the moments where the change is obvious. Porthos knows he’s a musketeer in the moment he leaves a miserable old mansion on a miserable stretch of grass two hours outside of Paris; he knows he’s a musketeer in this moment, holding the sword his true father gave him and having Aramis notice it enough to remark on it. It is a moment that has a weight to it, brutal and wrenching – but, miraculously, not the end of anything. There is no culmination. It continues. 

It isn’t the moment the change occurs that matters – like walking away from a marquis’ estate – but rather the moment it can no longer be ignored. Like right now, holding the sword of the man who might as well be his father and watching the way Aramis’ face goes soft with understanding. He doesn’t have to say a word for Aramis to understand what it means to him to hold this sword in his hands. 

(Or, watching Aramis walking away and wondering if he was losing something more than a brother; remembering the way it felt to kiss him and losing his footing, down down down – 

—further and further.) 

He wonders if he’s really changed at all. 

“We never really talked about it,” Aramis says, and looks up when Porthos sheaths the minister’s sword – now his own sword. His father’s sword. The gun hooked at his side belonged to the marquis, although Aramis has not yet noticed that – or has not remarked on it. 

“About?” Porthos asks, cautions through it. 

“What happened,” Aramis says, and then explains – because there is really so much he could mean, “with your father.” 

They hadn’t, really. There’d been the two hour ride back to Paris, but that had been a quieter affair – happy to have their brother back, but not bothering to weigh it down with words. Back in the garrison, watching d’Artagnan curl his arms around Constance, pouring out drinks in their honor, there hadn’t been a need to weigh it down with his own shortcomings. And after that, things had whirled away into adrenaline and duty, and his own selfish thoughts hadn’t been necessary. There hadn’t been a chance to talk about it. He doesn’t know if he would, anyway. It’s a delicate thing, his past. Change is a delicate thing. 

“There’s nothing to really talk about,” Porthos says as dismissal. 

“Porthos,” Aramis interrupts, and there is a weight to his throat, his voice pitched low – and it is indistinct but firm. 

Strange, really, to think that he’d only met his father such a short time ago. Two weeks, at most. And now he’s faced down death several times over, learned of Aramis and the woman he loves, the son he can never claim. Now he’s lost his best friend. Now they’re at war with Spain. A lot can happen in such a short time and it’s strange to think that his own world could be rocked so brutally and, in the grand scheme of things, mean very little to anyone else. To have Aramis remind him of it now is a strange feeling. 

(He remembers looking down, fingers curled around Aramis’ – and Aramis smiling back at him, open-mouthed and longing, panting out his name like a prayer.) 

“There’s not really much to talk about,” Porthos says, cautiously, but Aramis is giving him that look he gives sometimes, the look he gets when he thinks Porthos is being stubborn and he’s unafraid to push it. Aramis was always so unafraid when it came to Porthos. He looks away, clenches his eyes shut. He whispers out, hurt and brutal, “Stop.” 

Aramis says nothing, but looks confused. But he hasn’t really smiled once, hasn’t really laughed aside from hearing d’Artagnan speak of his wedding. He speaks as if he is separate from them, even still, speaks as if he will turn around and return to Douai at any moment. 

“I don’t need you to act as – some act of confession,” he says, because it feels too much like speaking to Aramis through a grate, a sheep to his shepherd rather than a brother to his brother. He was never one for God – hearing Him was always better for Aramis, always something Aramis nurtured and favored, whispered out around wooden rosary beads pressed to his lip like a lover. It was never for Porthos. 

(He remembers Aramis pressing his mouth to his, humming out, demanding and clinging.) 

Porthos breathes out, because he cannot – it’s too much, an unexpected ache. He feels like a kid alone in the dark. He could walk away from this, dive back into war preparations. He could ignore the rising and falling of voices around them in indistinct murmurs, he could stop running circles in his own head. Aramis is looking at him as if he’s been slapped, that the one simple ‘stop’ was enough to throw his world off its axis. 

Perhaps part of him wants to be unhappy, though. Perhaps part of him needs that melancholy. Needs to feel it. Perhaps part of him wants to feel it – all of it, even the bad. Just for a while, he wants that – and it’s too much to see Aramis looking at him as this, or to have d’Artagnan or Athos see him and understand. It’s too much, not with his brothers too close, not with hundreds of soldiers around them that expect him to be big and noisy and two steps short of _brute_ because that is what’s expected of him, because that is what he’s allowed them to think. He lets himself be miserable, if only for a moment. It’s better than feeling nothing at all. 

Aramis does not protest, but Porthos knows him well enough to read his face – read how badly he wants to protest, and yet obeys Porthos instead and says nothing more, stops talking altogether. 

And despite that, Porthos says, “I thought I was a bastard. An orphan. And then I wasn’t.” 

There’s little to say and little to think. His friends have been through too much, already. His issues with Belgarde are small in comparison to high treason, in comparison to saying goodbye to a love – Aramis does not speak of it now, and Athos certainly never will. Only d’Artagnan seems to have found his happy ending. Yet, for all his withdrawal, Aramis does not seem discontent. Merely peaceful. He wonders if it really can be that easy. Maybe it’s easier if he thinks about how it’s saving them all, or how he’s certain that they’re safe. 

He’s been losing people all his life and recovering. Aramis, eventually, will be the same – someone he cared for and someone he said goodbye to, someone who belonged to a world he could never be a part of. His mother, Flea and Charon, Alice… Now Aramis. 

“I have my family,” he says, quieter still – and where before Aramis looked as if he would speak, now he only falls into silence, lips closing, eyes turning unspeakably sad. It is an ache they both feel. 

Aramis is looking at him, and his eyes are longing – understanding, unseen but felt, incomprehensible. 

 

-

 

He sees the moment the tranquility slips. He’s fighting beside Aramis – watches him load up his musket, and fire, that small smirk of triumph that lights up his face – that moment when Aramis preens and turns his head a little, to show off, to bask in the praise. Porthos watches him and they get lost in each other for a moment, before Porthos steps forward and takes a sword swipe for Aramis – like it is effortless, like it is expected. It cuts straight across his arm, not enough to stop him but enough that it bleeds out in a sluggish drip. 

After the fighting is over, Aramis touches his shoulder and asks, “Will you let me stitch that?” 

There are plenty of surgeons on the battlefield with them, but still Porthos nods with no hesitation. He finds himself sitting in his lodgings, his cot pristine and sinking beneath his weight, rolling up his sleeve for Aramis’ inspection. 

(He remembers Aramis naked on his bed, the morning after their fumblings, his head still bandaged from the shards of glass at the back of his skull. He is gorgeous and disarrayed, his hair a complete mess and his smile slow and lazy in the morning sun. 

There are marks over his body, marks that will later be covered by his sleeves and his collar and his belts. He’ll touch the marks Porthos left throughout the day, shoot little glances at Porthos and smile that small, knowing smile – that _need_ to do it again. Porthos knows that Aramis likes that feeling of being held down, of being owned, of being worked apart one kiss, one touch at a time, knows that looking at Porthos throughout the day will be the quiet reminder of that. 

But it’ll be Aramis’ face that Porthos will remember most, in that moment, touching at the marks along his wrists and looking up at Porthos. He’ll flush slightly when Porthos grins back at him and he’ll look beautiful, lounging on his bed like he belongs there, naked and marked and lips blooming into a wide, bruised grin.)

Aramis frowns now, as he stitches at the slash stretching from elbow to wrist. “It’s a miracle you didn’t bleed out.” 

“You know all about miracles,” Porthos says, not ungentle, but Aramis still flinches. “You liked it today, didn’t you?” 

Aramis is stitching Porthos’ arm back together, and while he might wish to avoid this conversation, he also knows that Aramis would never hurt him, especially not as a means for distraction. He is utterly, terrifyingly gentle with Porthos. 

“Perhaps,” Aramis admits, because he’s not one to lie. There is the flickering, pained edge of a smile to his lips as he says, “Fighting is what I was born to do.” 

They lapse into a silence – the understanding that it is not forever, that it is only temporary, weighing down on both their minds. 

“You never asked me to stay,” Aramis says after a long moment, once the stitches are in place and he’s wrapping the bandages around Porthos’ forearm. 

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Porthos answers, because it’s the truth. “I’d never ask it of you.” 

“I’d have asked it of you,” Aramis says, and his voice is cautious. “You returned on your own, but with your father –”

“That’s different,” Porthos says. “I wouldn’t have been happy.” 

“Do you think I’m happy?” Aramis asks.

“I think you’re doing what you need to do. It’s different from what I was going to do,” Porthos says, looks over at where he’s shed his coat, the pauldron still hooked onto the sleeve. 

Aramis’ hands linger on his arm, even once the bandage is secured. They sit in silence, neither speaking, neither saying what they really want to say. Porthos thinks it’s just as well. 

(He remembers teasing Aramis when he watches Aramis duck down and kiss a bruise on the tendons of his wrist. Aramis grins at him, unashamed, and doesn’t even bother to protest as he tugs Porthos down and arranges himself in Porthos’ lap – kisses him again and again: mouth and cheek and jaw, his lips dragging over stubble, whispering out breathless words and helpless smiles against his skin and scars. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, breathless, affectionate – but demanding as he tugs on Porthos’ hands to show him where to touch him, and rolls his hips down. “Fuck me. Come on. Fuck me again.” 

And of course Porthos does. But that isn’t what he remembers the most with most clarity, even weeks later. What he remembers is Aramis’ unguarded expression as he kisses his own bruises, that helplessly, cautiously, deliriously happy smile he gives him when, afterwards, Porthos curls his arms around him and refuses to let go.) 

“Are you angry with me?” Aramis asks now, looking down at his hands fanned out across the bandages on Porthos’ arm. 

Porthos sighs out, and it is long and it is weary and he says, “I can never be angry with you. You know that.” 

It hurts, though. He doesn’t have to say it for Aramis to know it. 

“It isn’t the same,” Aramis whispers out, wearied. 

“Won’t it be easier to go back, if it’s like this?” Porthos asks, truly asks, because he doesn’t know what to say anymore, doesn’t know how to approach him. 

Aramis swallows once and looks up at him, and their eyes meet. 

 

-

 

“I miss the way you smile,” Aramis says one day, when they are knee-deep in blood and bodies and still fighting. 

Porthos looks at him after he’s done cracking in someone’s skull – a nameless Spanish man he’ll never know, who will leave behind friends and family. Yet it does not stop Porthos. It can’t. 

He looks at Aramis and Aramis looks back, even as he shoots a man over Porthos’ shoulder, one who would do him harm. Aramis does that often – watches his back so that Porthos might watch Aramis instead. 

“Porthos,” Aramis begins.

Porthos’ heart is beating too hard, too anxious – and not because of the blood and death around them, not because they are fighting and it should be pleasurable and familiar, fighting beside his brothers. “Leave it,” he says, and his chest feels too full, no room to breathe. “Just… leave it.” 

Aramis’ expression sharpens, more frustration at himself than at Porthos – although he studies his face for a moment. Finally he nods, reloads his gun, and looks away for his next kill. 

(He remembers pressing Aramis down onto his back and kissing him, swallowing around his laughter – and God, his laughter is wonderful, tugging at the tight knot around Porthos’ heart. 

Something gives and something pulls. He can’t go back.) 

 

-

 

Months on, the war is still going and there is no end in sight. 

That’s how it is with change. It isn’t a matter of revelation. It is a matter of acceptance. 

He hears his tent flap open and Aramis enter into it. Acceptance, not revelation. 

“I spoke with Athos,” Aramis says, carefully. And then there is a touch of amusement when he says, “I mean, the captain.” 

Porthos isn’t pretending to sleep, but it’s no wonder that Aramis should know that he’s awake – should know that he woke up the moment there was movement at the entrance to the tent. 

“Right,” Porthos says, and sits up onto his elbows – looking at Aramis, who lingers too far away, so untouchable. 

Aramis looks away, and then thinks better of it. He turns back towards Porthos. He hesitates, and then says, “I’ve decided on something.” 

“Alright,” Porthos says and tries so hard to be patient, but his hands are curling into fists and it’s too late in the night and he’s tired, bone-tired, with longing and with everything he’s wanted to say since the moment he saw Aramis in Douai, looking like he belonged and yet looking miserably peaceful. Like it was his responsibility to be at peace and yet it eluded him all the same. 

“I’ve decided to… return to the musketeers,” Aramis says. “Permanently.” 

And Porthos feels a weight lift from him – something that’s lodged there for months, unnoticed but there. Far longer than even the moment in Douai, far longer than the moment when he watched Aramis walk away down the road alone. It’s the kind of deep, desperate weight that is only noticed once it’s gone, floated away. And he knows. 

This is not the moment he falls in love with Aramis – but, rather, the moment when he can no longer ignore that he is. 

He draws in a steady breath and lets himself feel it. 

“Come here,” he whispers out, voice pitched low, thick with _something._ And Aramis goes to him, and something ripples and cracks on his face – he watches Aramis breathe out, reconnect, let himself feel it all, as well. Watches Aramis stop holding back. 

He slips into the cot with Porthos. It is uncomfortable at first. Neither of them fit comfortably, but they fold together and Porthos takes him up into his arms and Aramis breathes out, a quiet, trembling breath, and his hands touch Porthos’ chest. He is restless and fidgety, and it will be impossible to sleep like this and it doesn’t matter. 

Porthos draws in steady breaths. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, swallows once, licks at his lips – looking nervous, suddenly, uncertain. 

_I love you,_ Porthos thinks, suddenly, fierce in the thought: _I love you, I love you so much._ But the words are too new, even if the feeling isn’t – and he doesn’t say it just yet. He can’t say it just yet.

“I wouldn’t ask you to stay,” Porthos says and Aramis curls his arms around his neck and holds a little tighter to him – as if afraid Porthos will send him away now. Porthos cups his hands over his back, curls into Aramis, holds him as gently and steadily as he’s able – protecting him from all his doubts. “But,” Porthos whispers out, and his voice is thicker now, choking out as he breathes, “I’ve missed you.” 

“ _Oh,_ ” Aramis gasps out, his words too dry to be a sob but something weighted down with that sadness all the same.

(He remembers doing everything Aramis asked of him – remembers holding him down and kissing him, rocking into him and feeling him all over, even days later, a phantom limb.)

“It’s alright,” Porthos whispers and lets himself feel that deep, unsettling need. “Just kiss me.” 

Aramis cups his face and kisses him – slow and tender, breathing out a shuddering gasp and melting into him, whispering out his name like a prayer and like salvation.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [here](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) if you need to reach me!


End file.
